


Hurricane

by yeaka



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies), Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Child Abuse, Dark, Ficlet, Gen, Mind Rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-02
Updated: 2013-09-02
Packaged: 2017-12-25 09:29:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/951475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spock’s half-brother comes to visit, and he brings a wealth of half-truths and wrongs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hurricane

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Please heed the warning tags; this is a ficlet of dealing with traumatic events. While it doesn't have actual underage sex or rape, it is a type of violation of a minor.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Star Trek or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

There are no warnings when it happens, and at first, Spock thinks that inordinately rude. It’s presumptuous of Sybok to simply show up on their doorstep, expecting food and lodging without any sort of time to prepare. They do have a spare room he stays in, but nonetheless, it’s odd. He doesn’t bring his mother. When their father offers to contact her, Sybok asks that she not be troubled; she is aware of his visit and was too immersed in her career to attend. Spock’s family concedes, and he joins them for dinner. 

He sits across from Spock at the dinner table, their father and Spock’s mother on either ends. Sybok’s older than Spock by several years; he’s taller and broader-shouldered, a tiny bit thicker and clearly stronger. He has sharp, dark eyes and more of a curve to his ears than Spock. There are many other similarities, according to Spock’s mother. She seems to thoroughly enjoy pointing these out and comparing them to their father, who eats mostly in silence except for the few requisite gestures of politeness. He asks how Sybok’s studies have been going. 

Sybok says he has discovered some most fascinating teachings by an ancient Vulcan. He won’t speak details, but he does insist he’s doing well and learning a great deal. He looks at Spock the most while he talks, and it makes Spock’s spine feel more rigid than usual. There’s something about the gaze of his half-brother that makes him feel... cold.

But that’s hardly logical.

* * *

Their father brings them both to the spare bedroom, gesturing to the large blue bed and requesting that Sybok be comfortable. Sybok says thank you with a little more inflection than Spock’s used to hearing from people older than him. He wonders vaguely if Sybok has some sort of human heritage too. Spock knows all of the Vulcan teachings. He knows how metallic all of the other Vulcans seem. There’s something about Sybok that isn’t quite...

He doesn’t know. He can’t articulate it. He wonders irrationally if it’s part of his mental abilities forming, though he knows that’s foolish. That wouldn’t be how it works. The thought of reading Sybok’s mind or Sybok reading his makes him uneasy. 

Their father bids them both good night and leaves, and Spock’s so lost in his musing that he doesn’t realize it until a step to late. It puts him in the uncomfortable position of requiring his own exit line. The usual ‘live long and prosper’ doesn’t seem right, as they’ll see each other again in the morning. He wonders what he says to his parents when he’s leaving for the night, but thinking about such a natural action makes it difficult to pinpoint. Feeling his cheeks warming more than standard, Spock says, “May you dream well.”

Before he can turn for the door, Sybok says with a hint of a crooked smile, “Thank you, brother. I will enjoy coming to visit you.” His black hair isn’t as neatly cut across the front as Spock’s is, and the effect is wilder than Spock’s used to. Sybok’s eyebrows are similar, complicating his expression. Spock’s own eyebrows knit together in confusion.

“You have already come to visit me.”

“ _You_ ,” Sybok repeats with deliberate emphasis. “My first time is nearing, and they will not be able to assist me.”

“Your first time?” Spock tilts his head. He wishes he’d reached the door. He doesn’t understand what Sybok is talking about, and he gets the distinct impression that he shouldn’t know. 

“I have not yet decided what to call it, as the teachings I have read contradict with the afflicted nature standard Vulcan society seems to label it as. I wish to conduct an experiment of sorts with my first encounter. I believe I may be able to interpret it in an entirely different manner, soothing it without any shame.” When Spock doesn’t reply, as he doesn’t understand enough of what Sybok’s saying to comment on, Sybok says curtly, “It may not come until tomorrow night. Sleep now.” His fingers shift into the Vulcan salute. 

Spock numbly mirrors the gesture, feeling distinctly as though he should’ve done that and gotten out earlier. He finally turns for the door, heading to his own bedroom that isn’t nearly far enough way.

* * *

Though it was initially difficult to sleep with the day’s new stimulus circulating through his head, Spock managed. When he’s torn out of that slumber, it’s with a groggy, no-please-that-wasn’t-enough sort of feeling. He couldn’t have been out for long. Something’s wrong. 

He’s lying on his back in his bed in his room. He recognizes the feel of his mattress, the smell of the air. But there’s weight on top of him, sitting on his hips and looming over his torso, blocking out the pale moonlight through the far window. Something’s pinning down his arms. The blanket’s pulled taut, the only thing between him and... and...

Spock moans shakily. He’s trying to come to, but it feels like his head’s full of ice water. He’s internally submerged. The teenager on top of him purrs, “Shhh. It is alright, Spock. This will not hurt.”

Spock’s breath hitches. He already doesn’t have enough air in his lungs. Of course this is going to hurt. What is _this_? Spock squints through the dim light, and he can just barely make out the shine across Sybok’s pupils. They’re blown wider than usual, a strange, savage sort of look in them—it makes Spock think of the look in his schoolmates eyes before they call his father a traitor and his mother a whore. 

“Sybok,” he mumbles, “It is the middle of the night, please return to—”

“It is my first _pon farr_ ,” Sybok hisses suddenly, as though that’s supposed to mean something to Spock. It doesn’t. “But it is okay—I believe, through the new teachings I have been studying, that I have found a new way to conquer it. I knew my time was nearing, and I wanted it to be with _you_.”

“What with me...?” Sybok’s heavy. Spock arches up, trying to assert that he doesn’t like this and perhaps throw his half-brother off, but it does nothing. Sybok’s fingers merely tighten around Spock’s biceps, and Sybok leans closer, his dark hair tumbling off his forehead. 

“There is hope for you, Spock. You are young. You have human blood. You need not grow up like father, like the other Vulcans, so out of tune with who they are.” He’s speaking nonsense. Perhaps because Spock’s clearly confused, Sybok hisses, “Your emotions, Spock! You do not need to hide them—do you understand?” The strength with which he shakes Spock’s shoulders is frightening—Spock gasps. Sybok’s gone mad; it’s the only conclusion. He’s suffering from some rare disease that’s rendered his head less than functional. “But you will not understand yet, because they won’t teach you. _I_ will teach you, and through that connection, I will satiate my own desire. It will help both of us, Spock—do you not see that?”

“I...” Spock’s breathing is coming quicker. He wills himself not to be scared; that’s not productive. “I cannot see anything, it is dark...” Sybok isn’t listening to him.

One of Sybok’s knees shifts to pin down Spock’s forearm, and the hand holding that arm runs up Spock’s body, ghost over his neck. The long fingers spread, splaying all across his face, a thumb on one cheek and a pinky on another, three more fingers draped across his forehead and in between. Spock... knows what this is. 

He’s read of mind melds in class, but he’s never experienced one. He’s not supposed to. They’re special, rare, used only when necessary, extremely invasive. They’re not for _brothers_. Not like this. Spock tries to move, but Sybok has him too firmly in place. He opens his mouth to argue, lips pausing in their thought. 

Softly, Sybok croons, “You are scared. That is good. _Surrender_ yourself to that emotion; only then will you be able to overcome your pain...”

“I am only in pain because you are on top of me,” Spock nearly whimpers. But Sybok doesn’t listen. Sybok’s eyes close. 

Spock closes his, too, and he scrunches his face up, wanting to be ready. He doesn’t know what it’s going to feel like, but he tries to brace himself. 

Then the walls of his skull seem to buckle, and just like that, he’s gasping at the top of his lungs, arching off the mattress again. His eyes flutter wildly beneath their lids, eyebrows furrowing, ears ringing. Something’s coming into him, rushing into him, racing into his mind. It’s a wild, intense presence, and it’s not gentle, not kind. He can feel Sybok trembling against him, but his tingling skin is beginning to go numb. Everything Spock is spirals into Sybok’s hands, stamped down and riffled through and tossed aside by _Sybok._ Spock has feelings and wishes and dreams that he’s never told anyone, and now they’re all out in the open, Sybok surmising whole paragraphs in a second. Sybok’s sucking up everything. Spock feels like he’s being eaten from the inside out, devoured word by word. There are memories, too—colours and pictures and sound whirling into this black hole, and he’s pulled to the precipice while Sybok rips picture frames from the wall. Spock’s sure he’s screaming. He’s never felt anything like this in his entire life, and he doesn’t want to ever again. 

If Sybok’s looking for something specific, Spock doesn’t know what it is. Spock can’t tell. Spock’s lost, watching Sybok sort, and he whimpers and wants to whine, _‘What do you need?’_ He’ll give it to Sybok if it means Sybok will let him go. He’ll give up _anything._ Sybok knows _everything_. Something’s happening to Spock’s body, but Spock’s so weak and dizzy that he can hardly tell. Sybok’s against him. Spock’s head lulls to the side. 

Sybok kisses his cheek, hard, closed-mouthed, and lingering. Spock doesn’t know why. He’s only distantly aware of what’s going on, like he’s floating at the top of the room and watching his own body be corralled to Sybok’s wishes. He’s too gone to know what Sybok smells like, what Sybok feels like. Sybok pries open and examines memories, sometimes implanting things Spock’s _so sure_ shouldn’t be there. Perhaps he’s seeing some of Sybok’s memories, too. He _doesn’t understand._

There’s a particularly long memory. Spock went to the Voroth Sea with his family, as his father had a conference. He ran along the rocks of the beach—a welcome break from the dry dessert he’s used to. His mother watched and told him not to go too far. He went right up to the sand and felt the water rush between his toes, and Spock can feel every single little sensation that swept through his body—the cold air brushing along his skin, the wind tossing back his hair, the smell of the sea, the sinking feeling beneath his feet. There’s nothing special about the memory, but it was his. It was alone and it was his. 

And now it’s Sybok’s, too—Sybok’s behind him, right at his back, and the water’s turning a different colour, and at the same time Sybok’s all around him, pinning him down and whispering things in his ear. He doesn’t recognize the words. They’re coming fast and harsh and making him tremble. Sybok’s nuzzling into him, and Spock thinks he might be crying. 

Sybok’s voice in his head is whispering, “ _Shh, do not cry. I am here. I am here._ ” But that’s why Spock’s crying. 

He’s sucked out in seconds, so fast and so clumsy that the headrush is painful, thousands of little knifes bowling into his skull. He wants to curl up, but he can’t. His eyes expected the beach, but instead he’s in his bedroom, and the lack of light makes him blink dazedly. The corners of his eyes sting. 

Sybok leans down to gently kiss them away like some cruel parody of a benevolent diety. Sybok places a slow, chaste kiss on his forehead. Spock knows that’s wrong. 

Everything here was _wrong_ , and he feels so violated that he can’t even look at the man above him. Sybok sighs, voice calm again like it should be, “That... was what I needed. The _pon farr_ is appeased.”

Spock wills Sybok to leave. He’s half shocked when it works, when Sybok slips off of him and reaches the floor. Sybok’s footsteps are soft as they wind out of Spock’s room, the door sliding shut behind him. 

Spock’s alone in his room.

He doesn’t feel alone in his head. 

He shouldn’t say anything. 

He shouldn’t ever say anything to anyone. That was not supposed to happen. Not between brothers, not between children. He shouldn’t have let it happen, and he certainly shouldn’t have cried. A true Vulcan wouldn’t cry. 

A few deep breaths, and Spock tries to settle down. He wipes his cheeks clean. He sniffs and tries not to cry. 

He slips out of his bed and heads down the hall from his parent’s room. He’s half-afraid his father will disown him, but at least he’s sure his mother will hug him first.

* * *

In the middle of the night, Sybok is sent far, far away. Their father personally walks him out, while Spock’s mother holds him back and pets his head and coos for him not to worry, things will be okay. He’s not sure how, as it’s already happened, but the soothing tones of her voice make his head throb less. 

When his father comes back, it’s with the closest thing to emotion Spock’s ever seen on him. Spock’s father takes him back to his room and asks if it would be alright to go back into his head, with permission, not to perforate but simply to settle. Spock agrees tentatively; he trusts his father.

He lies back down, and he isn’t held, simply touched on the forehead. The force that ebbs into him is slow and warm this time, tame and gentle. It rights all of his messes, knits together his headache, pulls things that shouldn’t be there right out of him. When the force recedes, Spock asks if he’s been shameful. 

Spock’s father tells him no, and that it wasn’t his fault, and that he behaved admirably by reporting the problem. Spock’s father explains that Spock’s been gravely wronged, and for that, he’s sorry.

Spock receives the first and only hug his father’s ever given him. It’s awkward and unnatural, a little too stiff in places, but it’s all Spock could’ve ever wanted. He holds his father back tightly, not wanting to let go. He doesn’t want his father to let him go, either. 

Spock falls asleep before that happens, and he dreams only of pleasant things.


End file.
